


A Wrathful God

by IdolDaydreams



Category: B.A.P
Genre: F/M, Illness, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Reader-Insert, Referenced Vomiting, Slice of Life, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdolDaydreams/pseuds/IdolDaydreams
Summary: You’ve been infected by some manner of common plague. It’s rendered you pretty much useless for doing anything yourself. Himchan is there to help and nag as necessary.





	

With how much he’s been eating lately, Himchan didn’t think his butt could get sore anymore. Sitting on the bathroom floor with you has proven him wrong. Exactly how long you’ve both been there, he’s not sure. But he’s watched you the entire time, your back to him as you clutch the toilet bowl with your head nearly inside. Praying to the porcelain god, you called it, to lighten the mood. You’ve been doing a lot of praying.

His hand nearest to you has been a constant presence on your back. It’s as much a comfort to him as to you. So long as he can touch you, take care of you, you’ll be okay. He rubs your back in a vertical motion, middle finger dipping to trace your spine. Himchan watches his own movements. He tries to ignore the unpleasant retching echo. At least now, your stomach seems to be empty.

“Think you can get up, Jagi?” he asks, soft so as not to aggravate the pain in your head.

You pick your head up and nod. Finally you pull one hand from the bowl and grab a tissue to wipe your mouth. Just as quickly, you throw it away. “Yeah, but I feel gross.”

“I can help you take a shower.” Himchan moves to stand, but it takes him a little longer than he’d like. This is in no small part due to his butt going numb. As you pull yourself up beside him, he supports you.

You drop the lid and flush. “I can’t ask you to do that,” you whine, though the tone in your voice betrays you.

“You don’t have to,” he replies. He pauses to touch your clammy forehead with the inside of his wrist. You’re burning up. “Besides, you’ll fall by yourself.”

A noise at the back of your throat resigns you further to his care. You sit down on the side of the tub with your back to the wall. Himchan leaves and returns with two towels and two changes of clothes. He helps you to stand again, only to lean over the tub and turn on the water. It’s warm, but not steaming. Not enough to make you faint from heat alone. After guiding you to lean against the counter, he undresses first. Dimly, he feels a bit self-conscious. Normally this sort of thing is a necessary interruption for other, more distracting activities. Still, you need his help. That’s more important.

Himchan takes his mind off these thoughts by focusing on you. Once his clothes are in a pile on the floor, he kicks them toward the hamper to be picked up later. Anything that requires you lean or bend, he helps you out of. His eyes are trained on you, watchful. His eyebrows knit together about halfway through. “Are you okay?” You nod, and his lips purse as if he doesn’t fully believe you. Still, he doesn’t push.

In the shower, at least one hand is always on you, steadying just in case. He massages shampoo into your scalp, applying a little more pressure to the base of your skull where the pain is most intense. You don’t melt into his touch as you usually would. It gives him mixed feelings. A small part of him wants that validation of knowing his effect on you, but it’s better that you’re still alert. Or worse, perhaps, feeling too sick to get any relief from it.

While helping you wash your body, he feels you shudder with a weak laugh. “This is a little embarrassing,” you say.

“Why?” he asks, dismissive. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” His own hypocrisy isn’t lost on him.

“I’m used to doing this myself.” You take a step further under the showerhead to rinse. As always, Himchan keeps a hand on you. This time he presses it to your lower back.

He offers you his most reassuring grin. “Think of it as practice for when we’re old.”

Drying and dressing for two takes longer than he expects. The standing, even with assistance, expended most of your physical energy – especially after the long prayer session. He leaves you to sit on your couch as he switches your plague-contaminated sheets for fresh ones. Immediately the old ones go to the washer. In the morning, he’ll put them outside to dry, like you always do.

Once in bed, Himchan wraps you up in a cocoon of blankets. Were it not for your head poking out, you would look like a pile of unfolded laundry. He lies beside you with only your sheet for himself. He watches you squirm, trying to get comfortable, but nothing seems to work. Barely out of the shower and your forehead already has a light sheen. Better to sweat out the fever, but still it’s difficult to see.

“Is your stomach still upset?” he asks once you finally settle. You nod, and he continues. “You should try to eat something. I can heat up some of your leftovers.” While he tries to sound more sympathetic and less nagging, it doesn’t entirely work.

You look at him through half-open eyes, and your voice is muffled by the cloth bundled close to your face. “The porcelain god is a wrathful one. I don’t think I could keep it down now.”

“Okay,” he relents, worry plain on his face. “Not now, but soon.”

A comfortable silence falls between you, and for a few minutes he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. He takes his phone from your nightstand and begins to check his social media. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you stir.

You mumble into the blankets, pathetic and barely audible. “Thank you, Chanie. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Ya,” he scolds, drawing out the sound as he nudges your shoulder – or where he thinks your shoulder would be. “Someone needs to be here for you. How else will you get better?”

“Medicine.”

Himchan doesn’t need to see the sarcastic grin. He already knows it’s there. Rather than humor you, he simply sighs. “You can’t take that for two hours. Go to sleep.”


End file.
